en. "I hear that
right royally you gave my subjects' lives to the Spaniard. There's a
death that would more greatly please those that mastered you!...
Answer me!"

"I have no words," said Ferne, in a low voice. As he spoke he raised his
head and looked Majesty in the face.

Again Elizabeth colored, and her jewels shook and sparkled. "If not
that, what then?" she cried. "God's death! Is't the Spanish fashion to
wear disgrace as a favor? Again, sir, what do you here?"

"I came as a ghost might come," answered Ferne. "Thinks not your Grace
that the spirits of disgraced and banished men, or men whose fault,
mayhap, brought forfeiture of their lives, may strain to make return to
that spot where they felt no guilt, where they were greatly happy? As
such an one might come and no man see him, hurt or to be hurt of him, so
came I, restless, a thing of naught, a shade drawn to look once more
upon old ways, old walls, the place where once I freely walked. None
brought me; none stayed me, for am I not a ghost? I only grieve that
your Grace's clear eyes should have marked this shade of what I was, for
most unwittingly I, uncommanded, find myself in your Grace's presence."
He bent lower, touched the hem of her magnificent robe, and his voice,
which had been quite even and passionless, changed in tone. "For the
rest--whether I am yet to hold myself at your Grace's pleasure, or
whether you give me sentence now--God save your Majesty and prevent your
enemies at home and abroad--God bring downfall and confusion upon the
Spaniard and all traitors who abet him--God save Queen Elizabeth!"

There followed a pause, during which could be heard the murmur of the
waiting throng and the autumnal rustle of the trees without the
gallery. At last:

"Yours was ever an eloquent tongue, Sir Mortimer Ferne," said the Queen,
slowly. "Hadst thou known when to hold it, much might have been
different.... Thy father served us well, and once we slept at his
ancient house of Ferne, rich only in the valor and loyal deeds of its
masters, from old times until our own.... What is lost is lost, and
other and greater matters clamor for our attention. Go! hold thyself a
prisoner, at our pleasure, in thy house of Ferne! If thou art but a
shade with other shadows, then seek the company of thy dead father and
of other loyal and gallant gentlemen of thy name. Perchance, one and
all, they would have blenched had the pinch but been severe enough. I
have heard of comm